I feel lost, as if I am making a mistake by wanting to be a writer. I recently took part in a writing competition and the results came out recently. I didn’t even merit a mention, in fact, I believe I didn’t even make it to the shortlist.

The “loss", because that is what it feels like has left a feeling of worthlessness. I have often said rejection of my work is a rejection of me. Writing is not a hobby or something I do when I am bored. It is WHAT I DO. And when it is considered not worthy, doesn’t that also apply to myself?

In all the great epics people sacrifice for their purpose and desires. It is only after they have given everything to they get the one thing they have always desired. The question then, is have I given enough? The search for one’s purpose is a dogged, unrelanting quest where the entripid seeker chooses to keep going no matter the obstacles. I have not done that with my writing.

I have always chosen my livelihood over my passion, choosing to keep a full, soul leeching job rather than truly leap off the cliff into the unknown. I feared the leap would end with my dreams dashed on the canyon floor below. After all not all real stories have a happy ending, they simply end when we cannot walk another step anymore. So why do I feel like writing has betrayed me, when I have betrayed it countless times?

And yes it is only one competition and there will be others, but that doesn’t soothe the feeling of loss of a future or world where things just worked out.

If this year has taught us anything, it’s taught us that things don’t always work out. Some times no matter how hard you try or work you end up second. That is the reality and it is pitiful of me to sit here lamenting my fortunes, dripping with self-indulgence and pity.

Things don’t always work out, the leap is not always fruitful. It’s on us, on the quest for purpose to stand up and keep going. After all we have come this far, and nothing worthwhile was ever easy.